We continued like this for some moments, four men staring at one another, three sitting at the large oak table of a type that I had become well aquainted with, over the years.

Hayworth, of course, broke the ice. "You remember these fellows, don't you, James?" he said, passing his hand in the their direction. They glowered at me, one resembling Dan Hedaya in Mulholland Drive, the other more like Troy Aikman.
I did remember them, and as I nodded, Dan Hedaya said "Don't thank us for the ride or nothin', kid- it was no problem."

It was as I had feared- they were shitheels, had been the whole time. "Mr. Hayworth, who the fuck are these guys?" I said immediately, and Troy Aikman threw his hands up and reared back in his chair, saying "Ho, ho!", and Hayworth came around the table and led me towards the bar, far on the other side of the vast room.

"Jimmy, don't you get freaked out on me," he said. "They act like a couple of thug-punks, I know, but they can and do wield serious leverage, on the Hill and in the Deep South. They are Colson's boys, Jimmy. Colson. And we need him."

I did not feel, not at all, that we needed a cheap pig bastard like Charles Colson III to win any campaign, including a seat among the hundred in the United States Senate. And I told Hayworth that. And he didn't listen.

But that didn't matter, right then. It would more, later- but not now. Right now I was not so much concerned with the moral, physical, and emotional tests that were to be faced in the months ahead but rather on keeping my man, upon whom I had staked so much for such meagre reasons, out of the willful clutches of the true bottom feeders of the United States political system.

I was starting to realize that my experience was not very pertinent to the current situation.

We rode for what seemed like a very long time, because I had no idea where we were going. The little shops and the big shopping centers flew by as the limousine sped past the slower traffic. There was definitely an air of power in this car. It must have not been a very long ride in actuality, however, for we made virtually no turns and there had been no conversation. We turned into a long green drive, with the obligatory mossy trees on either side of the gravel road. Even more obligatorily was the massive house standing at the end of the drive, filling up the space between the lines of trees.
I leant back in my seat. I was beginning to get used to my role in this high stakes game: the unexpected chauffeurs showing up to take me to clandestine meetings with high-level Players to decide the fate of the Nation was seeming less and less intimidating, every time it happened. I had been vaulted most unexpectedly into the upper rings of the distribution of Power in America. I was now a sort of insider.
I suddenly realized that this was very unusual for a campaign manager. I was, after all, only running a campaign. My guy hadn't even won the necessary primaries, let alone have any sort of a lock on the nomination and certainly not the Office. Who was he, this tall, smooth candidate, to be sending me to these discussions on policy that I had no prior knowledge of? How was it possible that I didn't know? I had spent very many of my days in the last several months by his side. He was my Captain; that was how I had seen every candidate I had worked for, with one or two possible exceptions. I had trusted him from the beginning, but there was obviously some force at work here that I was not comprehending. Is this what all managers new to the big leagues went through? Did all their candidates have some sort of connections to the Machine that they didn't know about?
I was still brooding on this when we walked into the mansion, and I almost blurted some of it out when I saw Hayworth sitting there at the long wooden conference table, flanked by my friends the oilmen, big fellows who looked small and meek in his prescence.

I remained shaken. The Emir had been kind, but stern, and our meeting in the bunker left me no doubt as to the seriousness of the business we were becoming involved in.

Just what the fuck was Hayworth thinking? Why become a party to such affairs? It certainly was not necessary for the election process to go smoothly, at least this time around. This was, after all, a race for the United States Senate, a high office indeed, but not one that required these kinds of relationships. Yes, as I thought then.

Or maybe so. Maybe my years dealing with Washington-people had left me naive instead of experienced and weathered. I was certainly not a hardcore expert, but very involved... I had known Herbert Hayworth for just over a year, but this was enough time to know that he was a man that didn't give a flying fuck about the acquisition of enormous riches- a trait uncharacteristic of white men in business with Arab Emirs.

I shuffled with the other passengers past the stewardess, down the steps and onto the tarmac. As we walked in a shaky line towards the waiting buses that would take us into the city, a young man approached me, smiling. I recognized him from the meeting in Virginia, with the oil representatives. An aide.
"Mr. White. How nice to meet you. Please come with me. I have a car waiting. No need for the buses."
"What now?" I said, and shrugged, following him towards the small terminal building.

"We were somewhere outside Beirut, on the edge of the desert, when the missiles began to strike", the little dog- eared correspondent began dictating into his tape recorder.
You bastard, I thought, how can you so blatantly rip off one of the most well- known opening lines in all of print journalism? But I didn't say anything. The car was bouncing violently, as we had apparently taken a detour from the main road. We were now in low sand dunes, but the driver seemed unconcerned with the terrain. He weaved us in and out, expertly dodging the dunes, finding the miniature valleys between them.

"Excuse me, how much longer?" I shouted at him. He did not acknowledge. "Excuse me?" I repeated, with more feeling. He shouted something in Arabic that I couldn't make out. My Lebanese is mediocre at best, at worst the level of a hotel clerk knowing just enough of a language to get by with the tourists. It is a strange language, being comprised of elements of Arabic and ancient Aramaic, with a little modern English and French thrown in to keep up with the times.
I sat back in the seat. We were now running parallel to the main road, for I could see the tops of big rigs floating across the tops of the dunes half a mile away.

"Why not on road?" I hollered, and the driver said something else in Arabic that I couldn't make out.
"He says the road is too dangerous," the little reporter said to me. "Syrian warplanes are striking along the road, any cars and trucks suspected of being Hezbollah."
"I thought they were buddies- at least diplomatically," I said.
"Yeah, usually, but Hezbollah must have done something to piss them off- no one is sure- Syria isn't saying. Good for Israel, bad for Lebanon. You see, that's why I'm here, to explore the differences in culture that lead to these strikes, why they happen, what Hezbollah thinks its going to accomplish by-"
"Ok, thank you,"I said, holding up my hand,cutting him off. I had heard enough reporter- talk in this manner in the two days I had been in Lebanon. They generally ended up launching, if I gave them the chance, into some sort of sales- pitch type rant about their stories, as if I was in a position to make their coverage more lucrative.

The reporter looked hurt, and turned back to his tape recorder. We rode in silence another ten minutes, still bouncing like a toy boat among the dunes. I looked to my left, and could no longer see the road. I leaned up between the seats, and up dead ahead I saw a low concrete structure, not unlike the German bunkers on Normandy. The driver pulled up fast, and before I knew it there were men with pistols and Russian Kalashnikovs all around the Land Rover, shouting in Arab toungues I couldn't understand. We were all being herded out of the car, without having to be told to put our hands in the air, and the driver was shouting "Said Jabara! Jabara, Gibran!"

It was only later that I would realize that it had been the first time someone had pointed a gun at me in threat, and how strange and terrifying the prospect is to most Average Americans. Yet at the time, I had no real fear that the guns were going to kill me- I just put up my hands, and everything was fine- not that that's always the best rule to live by.

I walked down the hall, wondering what the man would look like, now, after all that had happened in his life. I had seen pictures, of course, but I had never met him. Few of us had. I was not prepared properly, I felt, to be about to do so now. Was my dress acceptable? The two large men escorting me had suits and were well groomed, but of course they were- they worked here. My denim shirt and torn, brown boots seemed a little vulgar in this fine house, but what could I do now? I was here. And I would just have to deal with whatever the hell it was that He wanted with me.
We arrived, after a lengthy walk down the corrider, at two very imposing oak doors, separated by three feet of mahogany wall. The guards stopped, and waited, saying nothing. Finally a buzzer on the other side of the left door could be heard, and the door swung open slowly and automaticaly. One of the guards motioned to me, and I stepped through.
The office was not dark and deep, as I had imagined, but lit with the sun through a massive window on the far back wall, about thirty feet away. I was slightly blinded for a moment after the darkness of the hallway, and as I shielded my eyes I heard a voice that sounded exactly like John Huston coming from my left, saying "There he is at last- the man of the hour." I turned quickly, and saw the old devil himself leaning against a plain table- desk, just a large flat suface of light wood and four sturdy legs. His legs were very long, and he had the tree-branch-like fingers of a basketball player, which were draped over the edge of his perch.
"Man of the hour?" I asked. I stepped closer to him, recognizing the look in his eyes from the one photo portrait I had seen. He was much older now, but still looked vigorous and active, as if he had just been doing something important the moment before I came in. As I approached, he pushed himself off the edge of the desk and drew up to his full height. His face, as I looked closer,looked like some twisted cross between Lon Chaney and Mark Twain- eyes crazy and wide, but jaw set, his mouth closed. He didn't hesitate to open it, either, and this was something else I hadn't expected, for I had always thought of him as some old sorcerer, sitting alone in a tower somewhere and never divulging his terrible wisdom to anyone, and certainly not to the upstart manager of a very freaky and much criticized campaign.
We said nothing for a moment, but stood and looked into the eyes of the other. It was an awkward few seconds, for me, but not in any way negative is my memory of that strange moment. I felt that this man perhaps had the capability of being above, morally speaking, some of the horrible pigs that were essentially his underlings, but then I had barely spoken with him, much less figure out what this was all about, so I figured I had better not assume anything. Finally he stuck out his hand, and we shook. As he released my hand, I spoke.
"What can I do for you, sir?" I said.
"Don't you know?" he replied.
I thought for second, then said with total sincerity, "No, sir, I don't."
"Have you ever been to the Middle East, Mr.White?"

It was late in the day, and the sun was beginning to sink. I had gone home early from work, so I was naturally very deep into a contemplative combination of whiskey and Moroccan black hash when I recieved a call from some loud woman who called herself Sarah Parker. The name seemed familiar, as did the brutish voice, thick with a Carolina preacher's daughter's accent, but in my haze I couldn't place the person.
"Have we met?" I belligerently interrupted. She didn't mind.
"Well, hell yes, Mr. White," she said, "as a matter of fact we have. I was on the staff for Dukakis in '88- so you may not remember me, but I surely do remember yousir." She said "sir" not in deference to my standing in Washington or something but in the southern way of combining yes or you with sir, to make yessir or yousir.
Something in her tone and this accent jarred my memory.
"Ah yes, dear girl," I began drunkenly. "So nice to hear from your pretty face again," I struggled a bit here, if I remember right," and what can I do for you?"
"Actually, Mr. White, we were hoping that you could come for a speech. Next week, in Nashua."
"Nashua, Nashua New Hampshire? well, I'd love to, but that's about a thousand miles outside my current affordable range...and who's we?"
She ignored the last part, but went on: "Mr. White, my boss has already sent you a plane ticket. It should be in your mailbox. She paused. "Come to Nashua, sir. You'll be surprised. I was." Then she hung up.
I sat there for a moment with the phone glued to my ear. What the fuck?, I thought. Of course, in my line of work, proposals like this came often, but who the hell was Sarah working for that got my home number, which I took great pains to conceal from the public as well as from most people in politics.
This was, of course, no small feat, and I took it seriously, because I wanted to know that there was somewhere I could go at my own will where no senator, staffer, or unknown person of any kind could reach me for whatever reason. This kept me effectively disembodied from the Machine, and it helped me a good deal in observing It with a clear head.

We had come off the plane at a quarter past noon, but the sun was muted in the haze of the nearby city, and low-flying clouds kept a constant strobe skimming across the faces of the constituency gathered in the newly cleared wheat field.
Hayworth was taking the stage, and the hush that always occured when he did fell over the crowd.
"I didn't start this campaign to lose", he was saying, and the applause interrupted him. "But if we're going to take back our government, I need your help- I need you on my side." More applause.
Liddeman turned to me with his wolfish grin."He's got it today- he's got them on the moral high."
I rolled my eyes. "When doesn't he?"
The mob seemed to agree with me. This was the last stop before heading to California, and Hayworth seemed to have a serious turnout from the rural blue collar crowd, as well as their children and wives, which meant that they saw Hayworth as a man that could stand for their families. What did Sarah say was the number of farmers in this county? It couldn't be much more than this, and there was no sign of a dissident group present. So in all likelihood, many of these people had come from the surrounding counties and towns. A good sign for our country following, and if California was half as good as this, and it would be, we had a lock on the nomination.
I had worried since the get- go that Herbert was going to be too left for the rural folk and too right(or just countryish) for the city liberals. There was, I had feared, and I voiced it to him often, a dangerous recipe apparent for a vicious campaign suicide- the candidate ending up being seen as apathetic in the middle, like Joe Biden or Harry Reid. This wouldn't, of course, be true, for Hayworth was anything but apathetic, but neither was the Democratic leadership, and they had managed to be seen as such, by both sides of the spectrum.
But I was beginning to feel more confident that this was not the case with my man. He had the prescence of Theodore Roosevelt and the cunning of FDR. He seemed to be able to combine country moral values with an attitude of pious tolerance that did not in any way seem "soft" or endangering of children's upbringing. He carried a big stick, and even when he spoke softly the area reverberated with his voice. It was impossible, I thought, to hear this guy, even on TV, and not get a mental image of protecting strength. This key trait allowed him to steer clear of the nationalist rhetoric that ruined Joe McCarthy, made Nixon sound like Goering, and would later make George Bush sound plain dumb.
But enough of this contemplation, I thought.We knew what we were doing. I was gaining confidence indeed in this wily bastard, and my previous assumption that he would, like all the others, turn into a rat when the ship sank, was fading quickly, and turning into something I hadn't felt in a long time- a lump in my throat when I thought of the possibilities.

So there we were, at last, at the terrible end of our journey, surrounded by the finest pedigree of Texas prime blood. These boys are a special breed, and are unique to the vicinity of Central Texas. They are instantly recognizable- white button down shirts, UT hats, redwing boots, faded Levi 101's, brown leather belts- but there is something else- a genuine air of wealthiness, a mixture of boyhood ranch experience and white- collar breeding- a certain cleanliness that seems bestowed by their mothers.
These guys, unlike serious ranchers or cowboys (who most certainly still exist), are very rarely dirty. They never stink, and their hair is usually very soft and well kept, parted down the side but slightly shaggier than in boyhood. They have a predelection towards business school- they have good connections. I understand this because I grew up with the mongrels. I watched their development, and this has given me a special insight into this strange country boy/city socialite mindset.

I eased around the club, trying to avoid eye contact. But it was too late. One of them recognized me, and came barreling through the sea of his pledge brothers, shouting my name and waving, his face red with drink and the rut. I cursed under my breath, but what could I do? I have, after all, had relatively close contact with this type since boyhood. Some of their fathers are friends or business acquaintances of my father's, and I had played baseball in youth with this particular fellow. He reached me, and my drink met violently with the bar as he slammed into me, wrapping me in his one- armed embrace, and I was engulfed in a pungent mixture of Chaps cologne and whiskey, the former being the choice scent for his brood.

" How ye doin' boy?" he bellowed, and the din swept up his voice, and very few of his comrades took notice. He squeezed me hard, and I was grinning, but desperate to escape. The threat of recognition by someone more influential was very apparent. They were here, I was sure of it. They would box me in, then shuffle me off to a small lavender room to work out on my ribs and fingernails... and I would surely spill the beans, the motive of our adventure would be revealed. And after that, only God knew what these punks were capable of- especially after they had counted me as their own, and I had decieved them- I would be flogged, branded as a traitor, a very uncomfortable standing to hold in this lot.

But what? Do I see Herbert Hayworth striding up through the crowd? Now? Here? What the fuckhell in the Kingdom of Jesus was he doing here? He was not welcome among such circles, he had worked hard and long to put down many of thier legislative agendas. Strangely, in the same moment I saw him, and the dim spark of hope alighted in me, I heard the Grateful Dead come on the speakers- someone with balls had put on "New Minglewood Blues", and the good boys that closed in on all sides liked it, but thankfully they didn't know what it was.
"Saving Grace", I muttered under my breath, and wriggled my shoulders imperceptibly, but enough to allow my old friend to react, letting his arm drop and turning his wayward attention
away from me, towards a younger pledge who had spilled punch down his front, but didn't seem to notice.

Hayworth took his advantage, and sidled up next to me, his hat brim low over his eyes."What the fuck?", I whisper-screamed in his ear. "Are you crazy? Don't you see the company you're in? They know your face. These fuckers will bash you like a pinata. Get out- you'll be lucky if you last that long."
I was very, very far gone in drink and craziness, which allowed me to speak in this manner to my boss, but Hayworth looked at me cooly.
"I'll tell you what you're going to do," he said conversationally. "You're going to get straight , get that crazy fear off your face, and talk to your friend there"- he nodded towards the large fellow, who now had the young, semi-conscious pledge by the shirt collar, and was slinging him back and forth, while laughing and muttering something about his mother and goats. "See if you can't get a sit- down with his dad- yes I know who he is- maybe tomorrow. They don't know you work for me."
"Someone does, goddamnit!" I whispered. "They lit up our limo like a lantern. They'll do it again."
"That was Colson's limo, that you stole, for no good reason other than your desire to do historic things. It was a message for him, probably."
"Perhaps, but that doesn't explain why- Jesus, this whole thing is starting to get a little heavy," I moaned. "If there were going to be car- torchings, I wish I had known, so that I could arm myself properly."